The Art In Our Stories
Have you ever wondered whether you are speaking with a friend, listening to music, watching television, or reading a book, what evokes laughter, tears, disdain, anger, or happiness? This question may have never crossed your mind. Our responses to whatever it is that we participate in feel natural; rarely do we question them unless something circumstantially occurs that causes us to wish that we would have responded differently.
At this point, we may ask, why is it that I reacted this way? When we ask ourselves this, it is unlikely that we arrive at an answer beyond what is immediately available. “Well, I laughed because I was uncomfortable,” “I was angry because I didn’t know the right answer,” or “the reason I cried was it reminds me that I miss seeing a friend.” Each of these responses provides a reason; however, they do not offer “the” cause.
We have the reactions that we have because we are working diligently in creating a story about who we are, something that fits within the narrative of self.
Stories are what we tell ourselves when we attempt to understand the world around us. Life is an experience that is so unfathomable in all of its grandeur that we must apply some logic to function within the seemingly boundless confines of existence.
Through our commitment to understanding, we begin to weave narratives based on sensory perception (sight, touch, smell, sound, and taste) as well as our culturally inherited language. A large-scale event (New Year’s Eve, a football game, or concert) is not exciting due to something innate or inherent; no, someone, at some point in time, told a story about the event that conveyed their excitement. This interaction, taking the form of communication, is then internalized and adopted into our own life.
Now when we tell a similar story, we are also relaying incredible excitement. We learn how to react to events large and small. We mimic what an individual or group repeats to someone else over time. There is a folkloric nature to how we learn about the world, which is first articulated through speaking language and reinforced through gestures and intonation. Eventually, stories become transcribed in our most valued texts.
Gradually the stories shift, little by little, to the point that we create new words to describe things or inventions that are now a part of daily life. The changes that occur bring on new ways of thinking that manifest through more tangible means. We experience cultural shifts because, much like a game of telephone, the details of stories alter and expand upon retelling and after being shared from person to person.
Eventually, we find ourselves employing new ways to describe what has happened in our experience, new tools to assist with tasks, new values that orient us toward different activities, and increasingly we have thoughts that feel more complex.
While there is much debate in regards to what were some of the first stories told, generally, the narrative that history reflects is the arc of what we have taken with us from the past and what we have left behind. Perhaps the most challenging aspects of our own personal or collective histories are the stories that we refrain from telling. The reason that we refuse to tell these stories often has to do with the amount of negative connotation we give them.
An event does not judge; however, we certainly pass judgment on events. These tales contain behaviors, thoughts, and feelings that cause us to adopt guilt or, more debilitatingly, shame. Due to the feelings these stories evoke, we leave them untold, which only allows them to fester. Eventually, we no longer take risks that would contribute to a more meaningful life because the immobilizing force of shame consumes us. The story we tell ourselves is, “I do not deserve to live in pursuit of my passions.” The narrative shifts from a story of achievement and conquest to a story of pity, sorrow, and victimhood.
How is it that we could allow this to happen? To live in constant fear of doing wrong and denial of who we mean to become? As it turns out, we create these stories because we believe that they will benefit us in some way, shape, or form.
Small doses of guilt and shame can be quite beneficial to our well-being and contribute to the well-being of others. Guilt and shame can help determine what is right and wrong. Much of our moral sensibility comes from these two painful emotions.
The issue, however, is the attentional bias (i.e., recurring thoughts altering our perception) or focusing effect (i.e., placing too much importance on a specific aspect of an event) that prevents us from seeing pathways forward. It becomes nearly impossible to find ways to continue on the road to betterment because we are so deeply ashamed of the past that it is no longer an option to find ways to frame things more positively. We fall into hopeless holes of despair, tropes of our mind’s creation.
There are ways past this, and generally, what they require is a leap of faith. Despite the remorse that we carry, we must push ourselves to speak with someone to tell this unfortunate tale. Whether we talk with a parent, mentor, friend, pastor, teacher, or therapist, it is essential to discuss the events, the meaning we attributed to them, that weigh upon us so profoundly. We begin to absolve ourselves, allowing the weight to lift, when we push past the discomfort by sharing something so painful with someone we trust.
Upon doing so, we recognize that we have passed judgment upon ourselves that is harsher than the judgment that we expected others to place upon us. The person we have told our secret may challenge us to think about what occurred differently and construct new meaning from our suffering. Eventually, through monitoring thoughts, confronting your biases, and owning past mistakes, you learn how to continue forward in a way that increases your capacity to experience what is meaningful and to pursue your passions once again.
Life gradually gets better, and your narrative shifts. You recognize that you construct the story you get to tell; you are the pen that writes upon the paper. Yes, there will be mistakes that occur along the way; however, you can own those mistakes and use them as fuel to recognize your humanity, weaving new stories that are more triumphant than the ones that came prior.
One day, someone will come to you, their head hanging low, asking for you to listen, to hear their story, to accept them. This is the art in the stories that we tell, the transcendent nature of where we came from, where we are going, and how we help others by sharing and taking the time to listen to what they have to say.
When an artist paints a picture, it is no longer solely the property of the painter; it now belongs to the viewer, the appreciator. Standing before a canvas is a moment the audience will walk away from, having evoked a variety of responses based on the accumulated experiences that came before for each member. When we tell our stories, they don’t belong to just us anymore; they take on meaning for the listener; they also take on new meaning for us each time we retell them.